


understand that I have been left here in the reeds

by woodland_elf



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2019-2020 NHL Season, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Toronto Maple Leafs, hockeys are actually the dumbest, two dudes kissing in a club bathroom five feet apart 'cause theyre not gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:20:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22203118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodland_elf/pseuds/woodland_elf
Summary: Morgan's been playing injured. It's only a matter of time.
Relationships: Tyson Barrie/Morgan Rielly
Comments: 3
Kudos: 115





	understand that I have been left here in the reeds

**Author's Note:**

> “don’t ship real people” blah blah blah, life is short just make it horny  
if you or someone you know is mentioned in this then WHAT are you doing here, GO AWAY, why do you even have an AO3 account, jesus christ, this fic is member-locked for a reason.  
I am 100% speculating on Morgan’s injury and know NOTHING about what might actually be his secret injury. Do NOT take this as true fact.  
title from 715-CREEKS by Bon Iver 
> 
> I literally do not have a plot for this i just sat down and busted it out like a fever dream at 3AM

It’s all a Catch-22, really.

Player gets injured. Player gets pulled to recover, player doesn’t get to rack up points in the season, player has a low total points for the season, player might not get X award or Y signing bonus if a contract negotiation is on the horizon.

Or,

Player gets injured. Player keeps playing, since they can still technically play. Player gets cortisone, physical therapy, hidden bandages under his gear while he skates his heart out so he can keep getting points, keep playing, prove something about himself. Injury gets aggravated further from “minor, playable” to “chronic, requires major intervention.” Player takes summer to recover, get appropriate surgeries, scar tissue develops, player faces an early retirement.

So what’s it gonna be, kid?

.

By now, ice baths were the norm for Morgan’s post-skating ritual.

He’d really aggravated his leg up this time, and it wasn’t even during a game, just a regular practice. Mo overshot the turn and his knee protested against the strain, giving out in a major way that left him sliding across the ice, right leg splayed out while he tried to catch himself on his left.

Barrie had been right next to him, practicing a drill together. Almost immediately, Tyson had his hands under Morgan’s arms and was hauling him back to his feet, sending electric shocks through Morgan’s bones. “Steady there,” he said, a surprised upturn to his voice.

Once he felt solid on his left leg — Mo wasn’t sure he would ever be really solid on his right, not until the season was over and he could rest — he patted Barrie on the glove. “Thanks, man,” skating away almost as soon as Tys’s glove was off his body.

Morgan’s injury was a well-known secret among the team. He’d been injured since before Babs got fired, playing through it each night with an average TOI of thirty minutes as some kind of penance, until Keefe came in, saved the team, and said “fuck that” to Morgan’s public self-flagellation and made him take fewer, shorter shifts. He’d also switched Barrie and Ceci. Mo would be lying if he weren’t thankful for it; he couldn’t skate as fast anymore, and Barrie knew how to fill in a gap on the ice, unlike his previous line mate. He and Tyson just skated better together — they had an on-ice chemistry that couldn’t have been predicted when he got traded over the summer.

Not to mention whatever happened off the ice, too.

He skated off the ice as soon as Barrie let him go, headed straight to the trainers rooms. He could feel Keefe’s eyes boring through the back of his helmet straight into his skull; he’d certainly be hearing about this again once practice was over.

It was the same argument every time, too. Go on IR, figure out what’s wrong, or play through it. Keefe argued the former, Mo the latter, and Morgan always managed to win the argument, saying it wasn’t affecting his play. Except it totally was — like today.

Morgan had stripped out of his practice gear and was sinking into his seventh ice bath of the week — it was Friday, if that says anything — when Keefe came into the room, still wearing his skates, with a determined sort of set to his face.

.

So Morgan went on IR.

He stuck around in the trainer’s room, really feeling this whole “pity party” thing while the rest of the guys finished practice and showered. Keefe was right, as he usually was; Morgan was just pissed at the whole situation in general, and a bit embarrassed that this little fall is how it happened. So he wanted to sulk. Sue him.

He dried off after the ice bath, careful to dab and not rub around his swollen knee — was it that swollen this morning? — and wrapped it up with some KT tape and an ace bandage. He was putting his socks back on, shirtless and just in his compression shorts, when Auston, Mitch, and Tyson jostled into the suddenly too-small trainer’s room like they were the three fucking stooges.

“Is your thigh supposed to be that thick?” Mitch asked while Auston let out a low whistle and Barrie just blinked at him, and grimaced sympathetically.

Morgan quickly pulled on his clean sweats to cover up his leg. “Show me yours, Mitchy, let’s compare,” he chirped.

“D’you know how long you’re gonna be out?” Barrie asked. Morgan looked down to hide his face, but it clearly wasn’t working by the little punched-out breath Tys let out.

“That bad, huh,” Auston put in, folding his arms across his chest.

“Officially week to week,” Mo said, now finishing getting dressed — the others were clothed, and it was a little cold in the room — and pulling on a shirt and looking for his sweatshirt. “But really, just until they figure out what needs to be done to fix it.”

He really hoped it wasn’t his ACL. He _really _hoped he didn’t need surgery.

What he needed was to rest, but what he _wanted_ was to be playing with his guys. They had a game in a day against the Blackhawks. Morgan had to be there, playing, not sitting in the press box.

“We’ll miss you out there,” Aus put a big arm around his shoulders, “but I’d rather have you good and whole on D instead of hurt.”

Morgan nodded along, just like he had when Keefe explained why he was going on IR, just like he had whenever the trainers and PT guys told him about this temporary treatment and that suggested stretch or practice or brace. He resigned to just keep nodding along.

.

After Mo finished talking to his dad, he turned off his phone, unwilling to read through the influx of notifications after the injury announcement was made.

He slumped back onto his couch, right leg stretched out on the coffee table before him. It hurt like a bitch. _Everything_ hurt like a bitch. Morgan felt like he needed a cortisone shot but for, like, his soul.

He stared up at the lines in his ceiling, wondering what the fuck he was going to do — he’d been having a low-point season already, taking weeks off at a time is going to tank his stats — when there was a rough buzz from his apartment call-box. Morgan heaved himself up and limped over.

“Yeah?”

“Dude let me in it’s fucking _cold,_” Tyson’s voice came out staticy through the call-box.

Morgan wanted to question why he was here at all, but rather than leave his teammate out in the cold like this, he buzzed Barrie in and opened his apartment door, leaning in the door jam while he watched Tyson huff up the stairs, wrapped in a thousand layers and carrying a small fluffy bundle in his arms.

“You brought Ralph?” Morgan asked skeptically, despite already reaching out with grabby hands for the pup.

“I was at Trinity Bellwoods,” Tyson shrugged, as if that were a whole explanation to Mo’s question, but Mo took it.

“It’s minus fifteen.”

“Only the most hardcore dog-dads go to the dog park in this weather. Plus, it was sunny, it looked nice.”

Morgan whisked Ralph away from this crazy man who did not fear the cold as he properly should. “Close the door,” he told Tyson, nuzzling his face into Ralph’s curly fur. Ralph was such a good dog. There’s a reason Auston was always at Tyson’s apartment, and the reason certainly wasn’t Tyson’s brilliant company.

Morgan set Ralph down on the floor and unclipped his leash, then limped over to the kitchen to get him a bowl of water.

“Should you be moving around this much?” Tyson asked while he shucked off all his coats.

“I had to let your frozen ass in, didn’t I?” Mo bit back, bracing against the kitchen counter while he leaned down to set Ralph’s water bowl on the floor. “Why are you here, anyway?”

Tyson made a sound that was a cross between a _hmm_ and an _err_ mid-way through unwinding the scarf around his neck.

Just last night they’d celebrated a win on Calgary, the boys piling into Ubers and rolling into some club on Dundas, happy-drunk on another shutout and maintaining a second-place spot in the division. No one said it, because no one wanted to jinx it, but Morgan could feel the playoffs on his tongue, even in January. He could see, with the team as high-powered as it was, reaching for the Cup.

Morgan remembered leaning over to Tyson in the booth, his dream of a serious Cup run on his mind, telling him, with a hand on Tys’s knee, “_So lucky we have you now. Our lucky charm._”

He remembered how Tyson’s eyes went pitch fucking black, and Morgan couldn’t tell if it was from his hand on Tys’s knee or because of what he said, but Tyson was suddenly up and out of the booth faster than Mo could understand.

He remembered following Tyson to the bathrooms, catching his wrist with a question on his tongue. He remembered Tyson pulling him into one of the single-use bathrooms, warm hands on Morgan’s neck pulling him down. The slide of his tongue on Tyson’s teeth. Tyson’s dick, hard through his jeans, pressed against Morgan’s thigh.

Now, in his apartment, Morgan waited for Tyson’s answer.

They hadn’t even been drunk.

Barrie had been the first to pull back, mutter “_Oh shit,_” before stepping back.

They didn’t talk about it this morning in the locker room, or during practice, or after, when the guys offered to drive Morgan home. Morgan had let the excitement of the win, of the good season before them — a really fucking good season, despite the bullshit with Babcock, despite the injuries — explain what happened. Why he put his hand on Tyson’s knee. Why he followed him. Why Tyson, Tyson—

And it’s not like Morgan hadn’t thought about it, before. Like he hadn’t been suckerpunched with feelings the moment Tyson stepped onto the ice in a blue practice jersey in September, with his shoulders and his big chin and curly dark hair. Here was another BC boy on his defense line, here to take his fucking breath away.

“Why are you here?” he repeated, unable to stand the silence.

Tyson cleared his throat. “I thought…uh…” he finished unwinding his scarf, hung it up with the rest of his coats and sweaters on the coat track. “I thought we could, y’know, talk.”

“Talk?”

Morgan thought there wasn’t anything to talk about. Barrie had taken one step back in the bathroom, looked at Morgan like he’d just been slapped, and fled. They played it cool back at the booth, said nothing about it at practice. Morgan thought that was it. A one-off. Tyson had made a mistake, kissing him, and had regretted it, didn’t want anything to do with it.

“Talk,” Tyson nodded. “Can I…sit?”

Morgan waved him over to the couch, and limped over to the adjacent armchair, grateful for an excuse to sit, too. Ralph bounded over and curled up on top of his feet. Tyson sat on the end of the couch, as close to Morgan as he could. Mo tried to quiet the little hopeful jump in his chest as he did so.

Half a second of silence passed before Tyson opened his mouth, but Morgan interrupted him.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he said quickly, “It was stupid of me. I shouldn’t have followed you last night. I didn’t — I didn’t know what you felt, and it wasn’t what I felt, and I’m sorry.”

Tyson sort of blinked at him. “Oh,” he said, and nodded. “Okay.”

Mo let out a little gush of air. He wasn’t relieved, exactly, but he felt better getting that off his chest. He didn’t want Tyson to feel like he had to let Morgan down gently — Morgan could read the writing on the wall. He hadn’t dated a lot of guys in his life, but he’d been around them, and considered himself a pretty good judge of dude’s feelings, straight, gay, or bi.

Morgan leaned back in his chair. “So that’s it, eh?” he said, clapping his hands on his thighs, taking on more of a _keep calm carry on_ attitude. “Glad we talked, thanks for your honesty, I’ll see you tomorrow from the press box.”

He gave Ralph a scritch behind the ears and sucked in a breath as he heaved back onto his feet, his right knee screaming in agony as he did so, wiping his suddenly sweaty palms on his pants as he went. Morgan could be cool. He could be totally cool that his crush was turning him down.

Tyson, strangely a bit dazed, started to clip Ralph’s leash back on, and reached for his scarf. Morgan, who suddenly couldn’t stop running his mouth, said, “I’m glad you’re so chill about this. You know, most straight guys would freak out if they knew their teammate had a huge crush on them.”

Tyson made a slightly screwed up face at that. “Eh, yeah, sure thing man.”

Morgan helped Tyson pull on his puffer jacket, then his wool coat, “I’m sure I don’t need to say this, but like, please don’t tell the guys I’m bi? Like, Auston knows ‘cause he’s my bro, but I’m not out to the whole team.”

Still blinking a bit dumbly, Tyson shrugged one-shouldered, “Of course, Mo.” They fist-bumped and Tyson picked up Ralph and Mo held the door open for him.

Tyson was halfway out the door, Mo starting to close it, ready for this whole fucking sucky-ass day to be over, when Tyson suddenly slammed his hand on the edge of the door and forced it open. “Wait. What the _fuck.”_

Morgan stumbled a step back, more than a little shocked. “Uh, Tys?”

“You think I’m_ straight?”_

Now it was Morgan’s turn to blink at him dumbly. “Uh, yes? That’s why you rejected me last night? And wanted to act like it didn’t happen?”

“I kissed you first, you dumbass!” Tyson nearly hollered, and stepped fully back into Morgan’s apartment and closed the door behind him. He put Ralph down carefully and grabbed Mo by the front of his sweater. “I got scared because I thought _you_ weren’t into it!”

“I fucking kissed you back!” Morgan shouted, laughing more than he was angry, and Tyson shook his head as if he were actually disappointed in any of this and kissed Mo.

Morgan pulled back long enough to ask “So like, you like me, right?”

“Yes you utter clown, now shut up and let me kiss you.”

Morgan helped unto all the scarves and coats and jackets and sweaters he’d helped Tyson get into, limping as he pulled Tyson along back from the front door, towards his bedroom. Ralph padded along behind them, dragging his leash, and Tyson stopped long enough to unclip the leash. “Stay out here,” he told the dog, and shut Morgan’s bedroom door. He straightened, and met Mo’s raised eyebrow. “What? He’s my son, he can’t watch me do…”

Mo cracked a smile. “Do what, exactly?”

“Whatever I can do that doesn’t irritate _that_,” Tyson said, pointing at Morgan’s right knee.

He rolled his eyes, and sunk back onto his bed, attempting more of a _‘come hither’ _vibe than ‘_oh god I need to sit or my leg will give out_’ vibe. “It’s not gonna get in the way.”

“Oh, no?” Tys asked, stepping confidently between Morgan’s thighs, spreading them with his hands.

Morgan sucked in a breath, mouth dry. “No, not at all.”

Tyson knelt there, broad hands roaming up and down Morgan’s thighs, careful to avoid his right knee. He felt up his hips, his fingers spread across his chest, his stomach, palms coming down and grazing over Morgan’s half-hard dick through his pants. Mo let his breath catch in is throat as his dick twitched in response to the touch.

Tyson pushed up the bottom of Morgan’s sweater, thumbs grazing over his warm skin. “This okay?” he murmured, drawing lazy circles across his hipbones.

“Y-yes,” Morgan said, nodding, a shudder rolling up his spine at the soft touches.

Tyson leaned in, nose brushing across where his thumbs had circled, his lips ghosting across Morgan’s hipbones. Gooseflesh started to rise as Morgan’s breath turned shallower. “And this?”

He hummed his assent, pushing forward with his hips, pinning Tyson’s chest between his upper inner thighs.

“Mm, so needy,” Tyson smirked up at him. “Is this you trying to tell me to touch your dick?”

Morgan couldn’t help but let out a laugh, high and joyful. “Yes, you jerk.”

Tyson grazed his palm over Mo’s now very hard dick through his pants, a smile spread across his face. He palmed him harder, up and down the length of his shaft, drawing sighs out of Morgan. Tyson pulled at Morgan’s pants and boxers, slowly, kissing each inch of newly exposed skin as he went until Morgan’s dick sprang free from the confinements of his pants and Tyson literally whimpered.

“I knew you were big, I’ve seen you in the locker room, but I haven’t seen you _hard_,” he said with something like amazement before taking his head in his mouth and going down.

Morgan fell back on his elbows, letting out a heady groan as Tyson’s tongue drew circles around his head and shivers trickled up his spine and down his legs. Tys licked a stripe up the underside of his dick, mouthing along the sides, before finally sucking him fully down.

Mo gasped, his hand immediately reaching out to grab the side of Tyson’s head as he hollowed his cheeks, sucking hard as he drew up and back down, lips already red and swollen, face flushed.

“Shit, Tyson — so good, that’s so fucking good—“

It was a fucking sight. Morgan threw his head back, sucking in a breath to cool himself down — if he didn’t control himself, he’d come right then and there, and then it would be over. Morgan needed to draw this out. He wanted to make this moment last.

He looked back down, and met Tyson’s eyes as he glanced up. Morgan made an abortive move to thrust up deeper into Tyson’s mouth, wanting — no, _needing_ to fuck his mouth.

Or something like that.

“God, I wanna fuck you,” Morgan groaned.

Tyson came off his dick so fast his mouth made a _pop_-ing sound.

“I didn’t mean—“

“Oh my god _yes_.” Tyson said, eager. His mouth was a fucking mess, red and swollen, slick with saliva and Morgan’s precome. Morgan had to grit his teeth again and breathe in, control himself.

Tyson pulled off Mo’s pants and boxers, gentle around the ace bandage and tape on his knee and the swelling around there, and helped to yank Morgan’s shirt from over his head. Tyson undressed like he was running late to a game, ripping his own clothes off and chucking them on the floor faster than he could blink.

Morgan reached up for Tyson’s cheek and kissed him, sucking in his cherry-red lip between his teeth. He couldn’t help but smile, his face turning into a stupid grin as he pushed Tyson on his back up the bed, until he was situated against the pillows and Morgan was crawling over him, right leg stretched out to the side. He reached over to his bedside table for a condom and his lube.

Tyson kissed up the column of his throat while he slicked up his fingers. He came off his side to settle between Tyson’s legs, his thumb rubbing deep circles in Tyson’s inner thigh, when he leaned his right leg into the mattress too hard and let out a sharp bark of pain.

He jolted to the side, hissing through clenched teeth. Tyson sat up, cupping Morgan’s jaw in his palm.

“Sit up against the headboard,” Tyson directed, kissing Morgan’s cheeks, his forehead, his nose, finally pressing a deep, sinking kiss to his lips when Morgan had rolled onto his back and pushed himself up, back to the headboard and his legs extended in front of him. “Better?”

“Loads,” Morgan agreed, and rested his hands on Tyson’s hips as Tyson straddled Morgan’s lap. “This is much, much better,” he murmured, mouthing over Tyson’s collarbone, the hollow of his throat.

He applied more lube to his fingers, then worked around Tyson’s hole, slicking him up and working one finger slowly, gently, until Tyson was relaxed enough to take in the tip. Tyson let out a shuddering breath, pushing his forehead against Morgan’s. “Keep going,” he told him, lips on the corner of Morgan’s mouth.

Working is fingers more, he pushed past the second knuckle, until he could curl his finger inside Tyson. When he added a second finger, Tyson let out a sharp whimper, his thighs clenching Morgan’s hips.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, it’s good,” Tyson nodded. His face, neck, and chest were all flushed, sweat beading on his brow. He caught Morgan’s mouth in another kiss, slow and deep.

When Morgan’s fingers hit Tyson right, his whole body shuddered. Tyson let out a moan that went straight to Morgan’s dick. He had to grab himself to keep from coming right there.

“God, the sounds you make,” Morgan sighed, “all the fucking sounds that you make, you don’t know what they do to me.”

Tyson couldn’t do more than breathe, panting heavily as Morgan opened the wrapper and rolled the condom on his dick, hard and leaking, one handed. He squeezed more lube out of the bottle for good measure, and grabbed Tyson’s hips.

“You ready?”

Tyson nodded. “Yes. God, yes.”

Morgan guided Tyson onto his dick, slowly easing him on. Tyson breathed heavily, making more soft, broken sounds into Morgan’s shoulder. Morgan held his hips tight, fingers pressing little dents into his muscles, his ass, a deep groan escaping his throat as he was almost flush inside Tyson. He took a moment to savor the feeling, feeling the tightness of Tyson’s hole around him and letting Tyson breathe through it.

He started to guide him up and down, small movements, until Tyson gained leverage in his knees and thighs and started moving on top of Morgan, fucking himself on Morgan’s dick. Mo leaned back against the headboard, back arching into Tys with his hands on his hips like if he let go, he’d spin out of orbit. Morgan clung to Tyson like his damn life depended on it.

After everything else, Morgan wasn’t going to last long. He took Tyson’s dick, pressed and leaking against his stomach, and started stroking him slowly, then faster, working Tyson until he was moaning with each thrust and each stroke. Morgan came like that, slamming his head back against the headboard as he whited out, stars in his eyes.

He upped his rhythm on Tyson’s dick even as Tyson kept fucking himself on Morgan’s overly sensitive and spent dick, until Tyson was coming, hot and warm across Morgan’s stomach and letting out a cry into his shoulder. Tyson collapsed forward, teeth digging into Morgan’s shoulder as he stroked him the rest of the way through his orgasm, entire body shuddering and shivering. Morgan lifted Tyson up briefly to pull out of him, then let him relax again on his lap.

Five minutes passed of just heavily breathing on each other, sweat-sticky and exhausted, before Tyson let out a little laugh. “Oh fuck,” he said, almost amazed. “Oh, _fuck_.”

“Did you have this in mind,” Morgan said between breaths, “when you walked your dog over here in minus-fifteen January?”

Tyson snorted, a gross sound by his ear, but Morgan laughed anyway, because it was Tyson and he had a hopeless crush on him and just got to _fuck_ him, for christ’s sake. Right now Tyson could probably yodel and Morgan would still think it was cute.

Tyson climbed off of Mo, rolling off the bed and walking gingerly to the en-suite. Morgan rolled off the condom and tied it off, tossing it somewhere where he (hopefully) wouldn’t step on it and would pick it up later. Tyson came back with a washcloth, warm, and started to clean Morgan.

“I can do that,” he murmured, taking the washcloth from Tyson. “I’m not completely incapable of doing things now. You don’t have to take care of me.”

Tyson rolled his eyes. “That’s stupid. Despite you being hurt, I still want to take care of you, and I’m gonna, okay? You’re hurt. We had to _change positions_, for fuck’s sake. Pardon me if I’m gonna take care of you. So then you’ll get better, and you’ll be back in the game and we’ll be on a line together again. Isn’t that what you want?”

“I want to—I want to be better now. The last place I want to be is on IR.” Morgan admitted, looking away.

Tyson grabbed his jaw in his hands. “So we’ll make you better. This is _good_ for you, dumbass. The more you rest yourself, the quicker you’ll heal.” Tyson listed forward, kissing Morgan. “I’ll make you rest, so help me, if I have to come and sit on you myself.”

Morgan quirked the corner of his mouth up. “Is that a promise?”

“It might be,” Tyson grinned back, kissing him more, deeper, sinking into Morgan’s chest.

Yeah, maybe being on IR wasn’t so bad after all.

**Author's Note:**

> lol why do all my tys/mo fics have one of them injured  
also: I will pioneer this ship! If it’s the last thing I do! So help me god! 
> 
> check out my other Mobarrie work (highly inaccuate, i didn't know a lot of things when i wrote it) for some large boys being soft: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20984321
> 
> now go forth! be horny!


End file.
